The Memoirs of Ainoa Katsella
by Stefynae
Summary: The memoirs of one woman who sought refuge at the Paris Opera house and found something within herself she never knew she had...compassion.
1. Aboard the Destiny

The following story is that of a young woman who I was fortunate enough to meet on one of my many vacations to the beautiful country of France. Through her journal—her most sacred possession—and several extensive interviews, I have compiled her many experiences into onecomplete volume.

It is hard for me to express my feelings toward this young woman—who, by the time I was lucky enough to spend time with her was an aged woman—but I can assure you she has started an intense fire inside me. She has been through more than I can ever imagine. My only hope is that when you, the reader, reads her tale, learns, above all else…compassion.

1

Aboard the _Destiny_

'A little girl stands a few feet from where I sit aboard the deck of the steamship _Destiny_. She is perhaps five or six, with curly blonde hair and dark green eyes. Her features are petite—her nose is like a button, her lips like two pieces of pink yarn stretched across the lower portion of her small face. She stares at me while I write about her in my journal.

She does not know that I write about her.

I lift my head up every now and then, acting as if I am gazing out at the night sky, while secretly stealing glimpses of the frozen girl.

Little children have always fascinated me. They are full of curiosity; they are always asking questions, which seem ridiculous to us but perfectly reasonable to them. They are not afraid to ask embarrassing questions, yet they are afraid of the dark, and of monsters that do not exist.

The young girl does not stare at me with fear in her eyes, but with interest.

Her older sister stands next to her, chatting with a young boy. She is perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Her pale locks reflect the soft moonlight that shines upon her and aluminates her features. She blushes as the boy whispers something inaudible into her ear.

They take no heed of me. To the other passengers I am but a shadow hidden among other shadows. My presence is easily and gladly overlooked as I spend my time aboard the _Destiny_ scribbling furiously inthis journal.

The stars are shining bright tonight. Countless sparkling faeries dance against the black night sky. The little girl follows my gaze as I look out over the channel.

I close my eyes. I can hear the laughter of the girl's older sister and her male friend. The sounds drift into my head as I soak in my surroundings, relying only on my ears to paint the picture of my environment in my mind.

The sound of the gentle waves lapping against the hull of the ship eases my heightened senses. The rhythmic noise drowns out all others. Soon, however, other, less noticeable sounds find their way to my open ears. Tiny particles of rock and dirt scrape across the wooden deck as the ship rocks slowly in the sea. A faint whistling is heard as the wind flows through a small hole in the metal wall to my right. The flap of wings comes to pass as a seagull lands overhead onto the deck's overhang.

And the laughter of the boy and girl cease.

When I open my eyes, the boy is gone. Now all that remains is the little girl, still staring at me with a questioning look, while her sister takes hold of her miniature hand and follows her line of sight.

"Who is that, Ann?" asks the little girl.

"I do not know," comes the reply.

Through the duration of this event, I have been good about keeping my profile as the only thing that the little girl sees. But I am tired...tired of people staring at me and walking silently away from me when I turn to look at them...'

So I placed my pen in the pages of my journal and closed the cover. It was the first time I had moved for some time—as I turned to face the girls—and my face contorted as my muscles awoke.

But I turned nevertheless. I was tired. I wanted to get this over with so I could retire to my cabin and get some well-deserved rest before we reached the French shore. I swung my legs over the side of the chaise lounge and rested my hands on my knees. I heard a gasp as I leaned out from the shadows previously hiding my face.

The startled noise came from the older girl…who was not curious, but appalled. I shook my head. It seemed the older people got, the less humane they became.

The young girl took a step forward, willing to converse with me. But her older sister restrained her, pulling her back and spinning her around in the opposite direction.

"No, Ellie. We mustn't disturb that woman." I knew she was trying to be polite. They all tried.

As the girls walked away from me, I heard Ellie ask her sister a string of questions:

"But why, Ann? Why mustn't we disturb that woman? She didn't seem busy. Why does she look like that? Why does she wear that patch over her eye?"

And I heard her sister reply:

"I don't know, Ellie. I don't know." She repeated this phrase over and over again, trying to avoid thinking of a logical answer. Finally she leaned down and hissed menacingly at the girl, "You know, curiosity killed the cat."

I saw young Ellie stop dead in her tracks, and I saw her sister smirk as she dragged her around the corner.

I picked up my journal and gathered the ends of my dress. It was getting late, and I was tired, as I have already said. But before I left the deck, I strode to the edge and peered over at the turbid waters below me.

The moon reflected against the mirror of the ocean. I smiled at the beauty of it all.

I looked out over the waters and saw a thin strip of land—France. We would be landing shortly—so much for rest. That would have to come later.

I turned to leave, but froze as I noticed a small boy standing in my way. He stared up at me with that curious look all young children wore. His hair was a mess of black strands and flecks of dust; he had obviously been frolicking on the old boards of the deck.

He smiled up at me. I didn't know how to react. When was the last time anyone smiled at me? I returned only half a smile to the boy. When was the last time _I_ smiled? The muscles of my face were stiff and unyielding to the grin I attempted to produce, but whatever came out of my efforts was enough to please the boy. His pale blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and his smile grew wider.

We stood silent, gazing into each other's eyes. I had never been that close to a child before. I felt vulnerable and extremely uncomfortable. My dilemma was soon solved, however, when his mother showed up.

"Charles! Where have you been? We've been searching this entire vessel-" she froze when she noticed me. I brought my head up slowly to meet her stare. She immediately looked away, grabbing young Charles by the hand and whisking him away from me. I sighed. There was nothing I could do for the puerile at heart.

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	2. Interruption

2

Interruption

I watched Charles and his mother walk swiftly in the opposite direction from where I stood. The boy periodically turned his head to gaze longingly and sympathetically at me, ignoring the downpour of harsh comments his mother threw at him as she scolded him for getting away from her.

"Charles? Have you been listening to a single word I've said?" his furious mother asked as she halted in front of what I presumed was their cabin door. The boy was still staring at me and had obviously not been listening to his mother. She followed his gaze back to me.

I was lost in little Charles' eyes, completely mesmerized by those pools of blue. Neither the young boy nor myself dared to blink. I stood with one hand rested upon the cold wood railing of the deck, while my other hung limp at my side. The cool sea breeze rustled my dress and hair as I stood, waiting for something to happen.

I only moved when he was pulled from my sight. His mother scowled at me and gave an obnoxious "Hmph!" as she stuck her long nose in the air and threw open the door.

And Charles was lost.

The shoreline was drifting closer as I started my return to my cabin. The moon still glistened upon the waters of the English Channel. I caught a glimpse of a small school of fish scattering about the ship's wake as I strode along the deck.

I could not count how many times I wished to join them.

I had always walked with my head held high. Not because I was proud of who I was or what I was about, but because I refused to let others think I was weak in any way.

So that night I stalked the deck, staring down those who dared stare at me. Most avoided my gaze altogether, and preferred to crawl along the railing to prevent even the slightest interaction with me—a mesh of clothing or hair, or the ultimate accidental brush with my contaminated skin.

I finally made it—untouched—to my room, after staring down two middle-aged women and one arrogant teenage boy. Before entering,I turned and yelled at the top of my lungs:

"You cowards!"

I didn't pause long enough to see the sea of faces turn to stare at me.

I was infuriated. Stomping about the chamber, I threw my journal upon my divan, muttering curses under my breath. Then I proceeded to pace about the room, waving my hands in violent strangling and pounding motions, imaging Charles' mother within my grasp.

I was just about to slit her throat with my imaginary dagger when I tripped over my journal. It had fallen off of the sofa when I banged against it. The book felt heavy in my hands—heavy with my burdens, my pain. I drew my arm back, ready to fire it at the nearest object...but stopped. The nearest target was a mirror directly in front of me.

I was never a big fan of mirrors, but this one intrigued me. My reflection was dark and menacing, like a shadow. As I slowly walked toward the mirror, my journal fell from my hands; I did not bother to pick it up.

Stumbling into the vanity, my hands flew to the glass and I traced my reflection. I was lost then, and do not remember turning on the lamp…but it happened nonetheless. The bright light cast numerous shadows upon my reflection.

I will never understand why people acted the way they did toward me. There were worse looking people out in the world...I had yet to see them, but surely they existed? No, it wasn't that...they just needed someone...someone like me...to divert attention from their wretched souls.

My hand left the glass to remove a strand of hair from my face. Black as midnight itself, I inherited my dark locks from my mother. But like her, I always had the most difficult of times trying to keep the curls in place, for our did not take to curls very well.

By this time, late at night, the amount of curls sitting atop my head had rapidly diminished in number. I rubbed my one good eye, which I suppose was another attribute of mine that could have made others jealous. But I loathed the color of that eye...that deep navy tint that I inherited from my father. I shuddered at the thought of him as I dug my nails into the crevice of my eye, longing to change the sickening tint...even to red.

But then I thought to myself—that wouldn't be wise, old girl...then you would be completely blind.

I steadied myself on the vanity, avoiding having to look at my bad eye. But it was inevitable. Raising my head, my gaze fell upon the black patch that covered my right eye.

When I was a girl, I was often referred to as a pirate or "Ainoa Katsella", or a combination of both.

"Pirate One-Eye." I'll never forget that. My peers had made sure of that.

My finger traced the silver studs outlining the dark covering. This patch was one of the first that I bought with my own money. I would have it for many years after this particular one, a reminder ofa faded--but not forgotten--memory. I traced the thin string of fabric that held the covering in place and then back to my starting point. Here, above and below the patch, the ends of a long and ghastly scar could be seen.

I prodded and pulled at that scar for hours at a time, pressing it harder and harder into my skin, trying to rid my face of it.

But my efforts were always in vain.

I swayed to the gentle rhythmof the ship rocking beneath me, and I could feel the heat of the lamp as I slowly lifted my patch.

It was halfway off when the door swung open behind me.

The cover slid back into place as I spun around and fell back into the dresser. My heart was beating in my throat as a young cabin boy stuck his blonde head into my room.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph...haven't you never heard of _knocking_!?" I yelled between spurts of breath. I could tell from the boy's expression that I looked very angry.

"I'm s-sorry, ma'am. I just...we're supposed to..."

"What is it?" I asked impatiently as I sauntered toward the boy. He drew back as I approached.

"We'll be docking s-soon." I folded my arms and raised one eyebrow at him.

"Is that all?"

"Yes...s-sorry to disturb you, ma'am." I smiled inwardly as he trembled before me. Relaxing a bit, I placed one hand on the door and the other on his shoulder.

"Thank you. But you should learn to knock before entering a lady's chambers."

"Yes, of course," he stammered as I pushed him out the door.

"After all, I could have been in the middle of undressing." I could hardly contain my laughter at the sight of his face as I slammed the door shut. I was still snickering as I picked up my journal and placed it in my small suitcase.

Outside, a whistle blew, signaling the end of my short voyage from England to France.

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	3. Late at Night

So here it is...after _finally_ pestering myself enough about continuing this story...I have. I will admit I have no excuses save laziness for not getting this chapter out sooner. I do hope you enjoy it :)

3

Late at Night

'It is nearly eleven o' clock as I sit here, writing in my journal, inside a rancid smelling carriage on my way to the famous Paris Opera House. The atmosphere smells of old cheese and even older wine. The acidic scents invade my nose and turn my insides, nearly convincing me to throw open the door and throw out the contents of my stomach. Luckily, there is a window, and as I write, I lean my head against it—thankful for the cool, crisp night air that flows over the countryside that is western France.

The only reason I have for wishing that my journey to Paris is short is that I am dreadfully tired. Traveling, even if you are sitting the entire time, takes an awful lot out of a person—which I find peculiar, but true nonetheless. If I were not so fatigued, I would wish to stay in the lesser-populated portion of the country for as long as I pleased, though I would wish for some other form of shelter. The pastoral side of France is so peaceful at night that I can almost _see_ the tranquility...and I can definitely feel it. The extent of the noise in this particular area contains only the light canter of two thoroughbreds and their heavy breathing as they carry me to my destination. No matter if it is what they were bred to do, their situation makes me want to walk the rest of the way. I try to block out the dreadful voice of the man that commands the poor creatures...'

"Oy!" I called out the open window as I heard the crack of a whip.

"Oui, Mademoiselle?" the pudgy, hooked-nose, food-stained driver asks from above me.

"There is absolutely no need to push these horses as you, sir, are doing. I am not in a rush to get where I am going."

"But mademoiselle, you do not understand. Zese 'orses are very slow... zey need, how you say? A little...motivation, no?"

"Reaching the end of their journey is motivation enough, Monsieur. If I hear that wretched weapon again, you'll be lucky to make it back to your shack alive...not to mention without being paid."

'At the sound of not being reimbursed for his service, the driver snorted and quickly returned to the task at hand. And now I sit, gazing out at the stars, growing impatient—though I said I wouldn't—for the end of my journey. I long for complete silence, for isolation...for a bloody pillow to rest my head, and a warm bed so that I may rest, to steal myself for the next day I must endure in this dreadful world.'

I had never been more thankful to be forced to step into a puddle. After what seemed an eternity of being thrown around in that wretched carriage, I heard a "Ho!" and practically exploded through the door.

I wasn't the least bit upset about soaking my boats as I stepped down from my transportation and gazed up at the Paris Opera House.

Through my correspondence with Firmin Richard, I had learned many of the amazing details of the magnificent building that stood before me...but it was nothing compared to actually _seeing _it firsthand. There are hardly enough adjectives to describe the beauty of it—the magnificent architecture, the mesmerizing sculptures, and the invisible force that seemed to pull me up the steps.

Waiting on the top step was Monsieur Richard—a stocky, short stub of a man, with a receding hairline and a mustache to make up for the missing locks atop his head.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Covington, it is a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance," he said, holding out his hand in greeting. I smiled beneath the hood of my cloak.

"I assure you, Monsieur Richard," I said slowly, removing my hood, "the pleasure is all mine." I took firm hold of his hand before he could pull it away from me, and I smiled the most charming smile I knew how as he flinched in my grasp.

They all flinched.

I paused before following my host inside, he mumbling incoherently about the architect and history of the Opera House—the same details he also wrote in his letters. I felt movement at my side, tugging at my cloak. I turned to see the filthy driver, holding out his hand as a toothless grin plagued his face. I sighed as I reached into my cloak and retrieved his payment.

"Pardon moi, mademoiselle, but zis iz not the payment we discussed."

"No it is not, my dear, foul-smelling friend. But I was not told about the abuse of these poor animals," I said, retreating down the steps and pulling out two sugar cubes for the horses. They each took their share hungrily. As I stroked the closest one's muzzle, the driver came down to me, red in the face.

"Zese are my animals, mademoiselle, and zee way I treat zem iz no concern of yours...nor should it affect my payment," he hissed, holding out his palm once more.

"Very well," I sighed, reaching for the other pouch filled with his reward. He seemed a bit stunned at my reaction and sudden defeat, but held the bag tight nevertheless. I turned away from him and followed several servants up the steps as they lugged my baggage into the massive building. As the doors closed behind me, I heard an angry cry from the driver outside as his horses took flight without him and his carriage attached.

Monsieur Richard was waiting for me in the lobby, with a man I assumed to be his other half, Monsieur Moncharmin. Armand was taller and softer than Firmin—his dark hair and even darker eyes suggested that he, like myself, preferred peace and quiet. As I came into the soft light illuminating the lobby, I saw him flinch and look quickly away before regaining himself and turning to me.

"Welcome, Mademoiselle Covington," he said quietly, lifting my hand to his lips.

"Yes, yes, welcome, welcome," Firmin said from behind me, "come, come, it is getting so late. Jocelyn, dear, would you like your tour now? Or would you prefer to see everything tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is already here, my dear sir," I responded.

"Dear me, so it is!" he said, checking his pocket watch. "Well then, I'm sure you are eager to get some well-deserved rest—"

"No," I said quickly, "there is no time like the present. I would very much like the tour now."

Armand quickly excused himself as we entered the auditorium—apologizing to me for the brief encounter—insisting that there was much to be done at nearly two in the morning. I hardly listened to a word Firmin said as he led me through the Opera House, instead soaking every detail in within the pages of my journal.

'Backstage I pass a room labeled "Dancers Only". Glancing in, I see rows upon rows of ballet shoes and costumes. I cringe; my mother once forced me to take ballet lessons. After running into the doorframe as my feet continue their journey this night, I remind myself why I quit before the year was over—graceful is not the sort of adjective one would use when describing me. I pass dressing rooms, prop rooms, scenery rooms, and washrooms, making sure to nod my head every once in awhile to assure to Monsieur Richard that I am indeed paying attention to his rambling. I have come to the conclusion that Firmin is the mouth: Armand, the ear that is forced to listen to the mouth, but lacks the hand to shut it up...'

"Ah, and here we are," Firmin said triumphantly as we stepped on stage. He threw out his hands dramatically, as if he himself was an actor. I only shook my head at his lackluster performance, and even rolled my eyes as one of the stagehands backstage threw up the lights and illuminated poor Firmin's shining head. "Well, my dear, what do you think?"

There is an astonishing difference between what I think and what I say.

"Excellent, Monsieur. Simply wonderful," I responded, squinting against the brightness at his 'angelic' form. He laughed a deep, resonating laugh and came at me with his arms open.

"Oh Jocelyn, there is no need for such formalities. As you are my guest here at the Opera House, so too should you address me as 'Firmin'."

According to what is polite, I in turn should have demanded that he call me by my first name, also. But seeing as he already skipped over tradition...

"Of course," I said softly, stepping away from him and farther upstage. I nearly thought the sound of my shoes against the wood would wake every occupant of the building, but quickly put my worries aside as Firmin followed my lead. I knew he was uncomfortable standing at my side as I gazed out into the rows of seats; I didn't say a word, and the silence was probably too much for him. "It is magical up here," I said quietly.

"Magical?" he responded quickly, thankful for conversation. "How so?"

"Standing beneath the lights that shine upon you as if you were a queen...or a god. Living a life that only exists on paper, bringing it to an audience that you try to pretend isn't there...to give them a taste of what you do for a living—living someone else's life. Someone else's joys, sorrows, pain, triumph...audiences love such things.

"They come in flocks, in herds, at the appropriate time, dressed in their finest. They pay top dollar to get the best seats and watch a story unfold beneath their noses. Some are rich...dukes and barons...and some save their entire year's worth of pay to come and sit in these seats.

"But it doesn't matter. It's worth it to them. To witness another's life without partaking in it. Once they enter those doors, all their troubles are left behind. _They_ are left behind. They come in as ghosts, witnessing but not participating. Patient souls that sit and watch. It's what they want to do. It's what they'd like to do more than just once. That's why they come back. To live without really living. To fall under the enchantment of theater."

"I can see why you are a writer," came a confident voice from behind me. I turned to see a very satisfied grin on Monsieur Richard's face.

"It's what I do best," I reply, returning the smile. I then turned away from him as a sudden hint of movement caught my eye somewhere out in the darkness. I listened closely for any sign of what I had seen, or any sight I may have overlooked. "I have heard rumors," I said matter-of-factly, "of a certain 'Opera Ghost' residing in this house." I turned to see Firmin with his head in his hands. "Tell me, sir, are these rumors true?" He dropped his hands and came forward to stand next to me.

"Sadly...yes, Mademoiselle. We have tried everything to rid the house of his existence; he has caused a great deal of trouble in the history of this place." He paused. "He once believed he _owned_ this theater," the manager whispered. I had to lean in to hear it, but quickly jumped back, for Firmin erupted into a fit of laughter. "Can you imagine? _Him_ owning _my_ theatre?"

"I thought it belonged to you and Monsieur Moncharmin both?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yes, well, that is what I meant..."

"What can you tell me about the Opera Ghost?" Firmin sighed before speaking.

"He is a wily one, the Phantom. He knows every trap door and passageway. He prefers box 5 to view the performances," he pointed up and I followed his finger, "but he hasn't been there since before...well, you know." I nodded. "And even then, no one has ever actually _seen_ him in there. His voice is the only thing that proves his existence."

"That seems a little impossible—"

"Oh I assure you, my dear, it is entirely true. We have had the misfortune of his company ever since Andre and I took over...but it is said that he has been living here since the Opera opened—"

"Monsieur Richard!" Somewhere off stage, a restless stagehand called for the manager.

"If you will excuse me, Joce—" I waved him off, gazing around the auditorium. When I could hardly hear his footsteps, I glided along the wooden boards of the stage, admiring the craftsmanship of the area. With my right foot planted, I dragged myother foot around an invisible circle that encompassed my body, tracing the shape slowly and carefully. I watched my work, never taking my eye off my moving foot.

Until I saw a pair of black boots polished so brightly I knew they did not belong to the manager...or any of his employees.

I stopped my spinning, following the trail of ebony that draped the man that stood but a few feet away from me. I followed his long legs up to his lean torso, to his black tuxedo and long, flowing cape...to his broad shoulders and proud stance...and then to his face.

Where most would have let escape a cry of despair, of shock, of disgust...I wanted to cry out for joy...

Here stood a man, whose right side of his face was hidden behind a stark white mask...whose small dark eyes expressed to me more about the man than anything he would ever tell me...pain, loneliness, and a certain hint of hope that sparkled when I finally met his gaze.

Unconsciously I took a step toward the Opera Ghost. Oh how I wanted to know more of this phantom!

Following my lead, he walked slowly toward me, holding out his gloved hands and taking mine in them. Neither of our gazes left the others as he gently kissed the back of my hands. His lips were cold as ice, but the emotion in the gesture warmed my cold heart.

"I have never had the pleasure of meeting another who did not flinch at the first sight of me," he said slowly, in the most stunning, supple, soothing voice I have ever heard. It was like silk—it _was _silk. I let it fall over my body; I closed my eyes, hoping he would continue talking—I didn't care what he said, as long as he spoke.

But he didn't. With my hands still in his, he waited for me to respond.

"Nor have I," I whispered. I know I must have looked like a fool, my mouth hanging open as it did, my eyes watering as I gazed into his, my hands shaking at his gentle touch...

"Go to bed, Pierre, or you'll bring down the house with all your tired clumsiness!" I turned swiftly to see Firmin appearing out of the shadows from backstage. He approached me swiftly, without any indication that he saw the man on stage with me. I turned abruptly around, only to see that the Opera Ghost had gone without a trace. I looked up, and out into the auditorium, and tried to see behind the curtains, but there was no indication of an escape. And then I looked down...

And saw a white rose, lying upon a trap door.

"I do apologize, my dear Jocelyn...Pierre is new, you see, he hasn't quite 'learned the ropes yet'." He laughed hysterically at his own clever pun, not watching as I lifted the flower from its resting place and placed it within my traveling cloak. Wiping a tear from his eye and still chuckling, the manager said, "Well, my dear, shall we?"

Holding out his arm, I hesitantly took it, allowing him to lead me to my rooms, where my luggage had already been brought. As we entered, my eyes fell upon a luxurious space, with furniture I knew had been brought in especially for me. I scowled at the sight of it.

"Monsieur, this is unnecessary...all this...all I really need is a bed and a writing desk," I said innocently, trying not to sound disgusted.

"Well, that you have...that and more," he stated dramatically, waving his hand around the room, pointing to the large wardrobe that stood next to the annoyingly high queen-sized bed, draped in a deep midnight blue. "To match your beautiful...eyes, of course," he said with much less conviction. I turned to him with a look I knew to be of madness. "Well," he coughed, "I shall let you get settled in then." He walked swiftly to the door, but hung back before exiting. "I would like to reintegrate the fact that we are all very pleased to finally have you here, Jocelyn. If there is anything you need, anything at all, please don't hesitate to—"

"Thank you, Firmin, that will be all. You have already done too much," I interrupted. I followed his steps to the door, willing to close it on him. "Good night, my dear manager," I said softly, attempting to be polite, "thank you for everything."

"You're quite wel—"

The door was shut. I heard his residing footsteps. I looked around my new home, hoping I had made a wise decision, hoping that I would find the peace and quiet I was looking for, and hoping that I would see the Phantom of the Opera again.

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	4. Act One

I must say, I'm rather enjoying this story. I hope you are/do too. Pardon mon Français...really, I'm a bit rusty.

4

Act One

'I have yet to come to a conclusion as to whether or not I have made the right decision in coming to Paris. When I received MM Richard's letter, answering my advertisement in "Les Papiers de Paris", I was momentarily stunned to learn someone would actually be willing to take me in as a houseguest—and at the magnificent L'opéra de Paris, at that. I thought, with all of the space, that I would finally find somewhere to fulfill the requirements I requested in my ad:

"Aspiring author seeking room for rent to work in peace—will pay generously for services."

Indeed that is exactly what I intend to do for the managers, as it is fairly evident they need the money far more than I.

Ever since the unfortunate deaths that occurred at the famous Opera it seems her numbers have dwindled down so that it takes an enormous amount of effort just to keep her running. I noticed MM Moncharmin wearing the same suit jacket three days in a row—and that was only to meals; the rest of the time he could be seen in rather shabby trousers with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and his hair disheveled as he worked with the stagehands to make the house shine.

I also noticed, on a slightly different note, that that dreaded Senorita Carlotta is no longer with the company. I read about her in the papers; all the English critics laughed at her—her snide attitude, her over-the-top voice.

Good riddance, I say...'

The morning after my arrival, I knew I had not been the only one to occupy my rooms during the night. I could feel it in the air—or rather smell it. That calming scent of lavender mixed with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon and musk—that was what he smelled like on stage, when he held my hands.

And I knew he had visited me during the night. I thought it had just been a dream, but when I saw that my rose had been placed in a vase by the mirror, I was assured that when I felt him sit by my bed to watch me sleep that it was not a dream.

I went over to the white rose while I stretched my tired body. I reached out and stroked the petals, twirling a strand of hair with my other hand.

Then I looked into the mirror and scowled.

"Foolish git," I hissed at my reflection. I was swooning over a man I didn't even know—and a murderer, at that. I readjusted my patch as it had shifted overnight. My scowl returned to save me from my girlish fantasies that made me want to lodge a spoon deep within my throat.

I took the vase and rose and locked it in the upper cabinet of my wardrobe. I would not let a villainous stranger get the best of me—not after all I had been through. No one was going to pierce my skin that easily.

With a peculiar new mind-set, I headed down to the dining hall for breakfast. It was a vast room filled with a long cherry table and enough seating for thirty people. Outrageously large paintings covered the walls—all in need of a good dusting. But the gaudiest aspect of the whole room was a statue that nearly rendered me unconscious as I entered the space; it was a statue of Napoleon, with his hand in his trousers and his sword stretched out to attack unsuspecting dinner guests.

I had hoped—and expected—my first breakfast to be a gathering of small proportions, with guests including the managers, permanent stagehands, and perhaps a carpenter or two coming early for work.

I did not expect to see the entire company—dancers, actors, singers—laughing and conversing at an alarming pitch as I entered. I had to cover my ears to shield them from the noise, until nearly all pairs of eyes were on me, when which it became eerily silent.

"Ah, Jocelyn, lovely to see you," came a familiar voice from behind me. Firmin stepped around me, carrying a plate of sausages. "Everyone, this is Mademoiselle Jocelyn Covington, our resident guest for the time being." He stumbled over to the table and dropped the platter in front of a small dancer who jumped at the clamor. "She's a writer, you know," he added as he stood up. Several enlightened faces smiled at me. I half-smiled and nodded to them. "Please dear, have a seat." With a hand pressed firmly in-between my shoulder blades, Firmin led me to a chair next to a small blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, whose smile was so large I was nearly blinded by it.

"I'm Meg Giry," she said, in one of the most wretched voices I have ever heard—halfway between puberty and the screech of a seagull. She held out her hand, obviously expecting me to take it.

"Save your energy, Mademoiselle Giry. I am not here to make friends, so your formalities are completely unnecessary and wasted."

That was putting it nicely.

I watched as her hand slid from view in a dramatic, defeated sort of way. I looked around me; the din had died down. Several faces were still staring at me, some with curiosity, others with disgust at what I had just said to the young girl. They were the youthful faces of dancers, the luminous features of actors, and the stressed expressions of singers.

They were faces I did not want to eat breakfast with.

Grabbing a croissant and a goblet of juice, I stood abruptly from the table and made my way out of the hall, nearly crashing into Firmin as he brought in a pitcher from the kitchens.

"Jocelyn? Where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked with a look of disappointment.

"I am merely taking breakfast to my own rooms," I replied, brushing past him. Walking briskly away from the horrible morning I was having, I heard Firmin shouting my name, pleading with me to stop.

"This was not part of our arrangement, Monsieur," I hissed as I rounded on him. "You told me there wasn't going to be more than ten people here, and that they would all be sure to leave me in peace."

"I know that was our original arrangement, Jocelyn," he began, startled at my sudden change of direction as I attempted to steal away from him. "But things do change." I stopped.

"And what, _exactly_, has changed, Monsieur?" I asked, nearly shaking with impatience.

"We received a letter—a few weeks ago—from a benefactor willing to fund an show here. He has said that he would take care of everything—the cost of sets and costumes, the pay for our staff and talent...he even said he would pay off the Opera Ghost!" He was out of breath by the time we stopped just outside my rooms. "Mademoiselle, there is no way I would have passed up an opportunity like this. I would have told you last night..." I raised an eyebrow at him. "...but I didn't. I apologize. Your business is important to us all, but not so important that it would stop us from putting on another show." He straightened his shirt and ran his hand over his shining head. I snorted softly at his boldness.

"Well, one can hardly blame you." He didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult, which made my smile grow a bit wider. I took a bite of my croissant and opened the door. "Good day to you, Firmin," I said as I closed the door in his face.

Slumping against the oak gate, I thought about my position. To stay, with magnificent accommodations, but to put up with _all the people, _or to go—back out into the streets, with no plan, no reputation, a scowl and an eye patch.

"You will be coming to the show, Jocelyn, will you not?" I leapt out of my skin at the sound of Firmin's voice on the other side of the door. Throwing it open, I was amazed to see the manager still there. My eye must have been bulging and my nostrils flaring, for the poor man took an uneasy step back from me as I stared him down.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Coming...to the show...this evening?" he stuttered. I started to breathe again, looking away from him.

"I am not a fan of the Opera, Monsieur," I stated simply. Before I could close the door, Firmin's hand stopped me.

"Please, Jocelyn. You are staying in an Opera House. I guarantee you will enjoy it if you only give it a chance."

"I have nothing to wear."

"I am sure one of the girls has something your size." That was the last thing I needed—a borrowed dress off an over zealous dancer. He must have seen the look I gave that thought. "And of course you would join MM Moncharmin and myself in the top box, stage left—right in the middle of the action!" I smiled inwardly at the zeal of this man; he was desperate just to have me climb out of my cave and into the public world.

"Very well," I said softly, removing his hand from my doorframe, "I will think about it." He kissed my hand gently.

"I shall hope to see you then to-night, in the front lobby, at seven o' clock—"

"Yes, yes, I will meet you there."

When he left, whistling down the corridor the entire way, I fell back on my bed and stared at the high ceilings.

What had gotten into me?

'I am going to the opera to-night, for reasons unknown even to myself. It is not something I normally do—expose myself to the public. The only logical explanation for this behavior of mine—if you can call it logical—is that I might, perhaps, run into the mysterious Phantom again, which in itself is most ridiculous wishful thinking. I must clear my head of him, though it is hard to do so. One who has been deprived of physical and emotional bondage nearly their entire life cannot be blamed for grasping on to someone who seems in the same situation...'

I had lied to the manager about not having a dress; I indeed had one, though was ashamed to say I did. It was too bright, too tight, and too revealing. It made me feel like one of the whores from that Moulin Rouge place over in Monmartre...

I tried my best to position it on my chest so that I wouldn't have to keep pulling it up the entire night, but my efforts were to no avail. I looked at myself in the mirror.

'I should really get rid of this wretched mirror. Dump it in the Atlantic along with this God forsaken dress. I look like a brightly wrapped caramel. Perhaps I would be better off hiding in a candy dish in some immaculate parlor...'

One might say I looked elegant, or even beautiful—if I hadn't been wearing the eye patch. It might be said that it sort of ruined the entire ensemble; I say it gave it character. I pinned up the last curl in a half up-do, letting the longer, lower curls fall over my collarbone and neck. As satisfied as I could be with my appearance, I made my way to the door.

But I stopped. I thought I saw movement, perhaps just felt it. I didn't know where the feeling came from but it gave me chills. Curious, cautious chills.

The lobby was bustling with life as I entered through a side entrance. I smiled at the looks I received when onlookers noticed me--the women scowled and hit their men as I walked by. Everyone flinched, as usual.

Pushing my way through the crowd to the center of the area, I saw Firmin speaking with what I assumed was the benefactor of that evening's show. He spotted me and waved me over to where they stood.

"So pleased you could make it this evening, Jocelyn," he said, extending his hand. I took it and fell into position next to him. "My dear, I would like you to meet Monsieur Ransom Emeroy." The tall, light-haired man flinched as I turned to him, before extending his hand toward me. His clear blue eyes communicated the appalled look that his mustached mouth did not.

"A pleasure, Mademoiselle," he said, attempting to sound charming. Perhaps this was the appropriate time to respond with, "The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur"—but that would be a lie. When I remained silent, save for a small nod, he continued to speak. "My dear manager has told me all about you."

"Has he?" I inquired. Firmin played with the lapels of his coat, ignoring my inquiry. "I'm afraid he has told me nothing of you."

"Well, shall I regale you?" he asked, holding out his arm for me to take hold of. Reluctant as I was, I smiled inwardly at the opportunity of someone attempting to charm me all evening. I took his arm and he led me into the auditorium, with Firmin and the rest of the audience close behind.

I must admit the House looked amazing—probably close to how she looked the night she first opened. The lush red curtains were drawn over the stage, billowing softly against an unseen force—a soft breeze from outside or backstage, or maybe members of the company brushing up against it. As we headed toward our box—with Monsieur Emeroy telling his life story to an inattentive ear—I watched as people took their seats: Barons and their wives, Dukes and their friends (all of which fighting for the seat next to the esteemed one), and townsfolk at their first and only show. With all the blinding gowns of the women in the house, I advanced unnoticed.

It was a welcome change.

Box 4 was positioned directly across from box 5 and sandwiched in-between boxes 2 and 6. Inside there were seven seats—four in the front row and three in the back. The benefactor led me to the front third seat, as he took the second and MM Richard the first. MM Emeroy was still talking my ear off as the lights dimmed and the curtain went up.

If I could remember the name of the show I half paid attention to that night I would regurgitate it. But the fact of the matter is I cannot. I was much more interested in the box opposite ours; it was the only empty seat in the house. And not just one empty seat, but seven. The entire box was empty, while the rest of the auditorium was filled to maximum capacity.

As the ear-piercing singing and half-hearted acting went on below me, I kept my eye on box 5, remembering to keep one ear open to those around me, so I would not forget to clap when they did. This made it seem as though I was somewhat paying attention.

At one point near the end of Act One, I managed to get a hold of MM Emeroy's binoculars and stole a good look at the empty box.

"You won't find him in there...not yet, anyway."

MM Moncharmin had arrived.

Taking the empty seat next to mine, he stretched out his long legs so that they hit the box wall that kept us from plummeting into the seats below. I jumped, snapping the glasses down into my lap.

"I beg your pardon?" I whispered.

"If he comes, he never shows up until after Act One. He hasn't been around much these days but rumor has it he's back in town." He watched the situation below as he spoke, while I watched him. What on earth was he talking about?

"And just who is _he_?" I asked. Andre raised his brow at me and I knew; I remembered what Firmin had told me the previous night. I inhaled sharply before continuing.

"And just _why_ exactly do you assume I am watching for him?" I hissed.

"Shh!" came a voice from my other side. MM Emeroy patted my arm and pointed to the stage. I rolled my eyes; the most talkative man I had ever met was telling me to be quiet.

I turned back to André, who threw up his arms in defeat.

"Forgive a fool for his assumptions?" I settled back in my seat and smoothed out my dress.

"Very well. You are forgiven." He smiled in the darkness, taking the binoculars from my hands. I watched as he looked down at the stage, then to the rafters above, and finally out to the audience. When he was finished, he placed them back in my lap.

"Marvelous invention, those are. I bet you can see for miles out in the open." He folded his arms and shrugged his shoulders, relaxing back into his seat.

Suddenly applause broke out all around us—the first Act was finished. I clapped politely along with the rest of those in box 4.

"Well, what do you think, Jocelyn?" Emeroy asked.

"It's wonderful. I've never had this much fun sitting in one place for such a long time." The man blinked at me, not fully understanding my sarcasm. I smiled at his dumbfounded expression, then rose from my seat.

"Where are you going?" I stared at him, thinking of an excuse.

"To the ladies' room, of course." As I passed by André, I dropped the binoculars in his lap and winked. He just shook his head and smiled.

I tried to get this out fairly quickly, I apologize for any grammatical/spelling/usage errors. If they exist, please let me know (in a review)!


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